“Yeah?” said Wetzlaff. He was on his feet by then. So was Trixie.
The pilot was a good-looking young fellow. He shrugged. “If they’re okay now, we’ll take off and call it a day.”
“Will you?” said Wetzlaff. “Rough him, Pete.”
Callously the gun barrel beat the young pilot to his knees. Blood was trickling out of the poor devil’s hair when he reeled to his feet, eyes staring, mouth working.
“Th-this has gone far enough!” he gasped. “She—she said it was a joke she was playing when she asked me to find this island and stall the motors and land. But I’ve had enough!”
At my right shoulder Lucille Palmer laughed nastily. “I knew there was something screwy when that hussy showed up. It’s some more of Louis Layre’s dirty tricks.”
“Get away from me before I forget myself!” I snarled.
Only the guard’s drawn automatic kept me from going out that screened window. For Trixie had snapped open her purse and was drawing a gun as she darted back from Wetzlaff’s sudden grab.
I groaned as she stumbled over the chair behind her and Wetzlaff caught her arm. Little Trixie didn’t have a chance after that. Wetzlaff twisted her arm and forced her to her knees. He tore the gun out of her hand and jerked her to her feet.
“So you’re a tough little tart, after all!”
While I clenched my fists and stood taut and trembling, Wetzlaff questioned Trixie, twisting her arm until she moaned. He seemed to have an idea she was hooked up with Louis Layre, the lawyer. He might be doing business with the man, but he obviously didn’t trust him.
Trixie gave him no satisfaction. More than a bullying racketeer was needed to break that gallant little kid’s spirit.
Wetzlaff finally exploded in rage, “Lock this guy upstairs with that other fellow! This business is spouting enough screwy angles to give a man the d.t.’s!”
* * *
—
So the good-looking young pilot and I landed back up under the eaves. We looked at one another after the door was locked. He was still shaking. He moistened his lips.
“What the hell does this mean?” he groaned.
“What you don’t know won’t hurt you,” I said. “Sit down and stop shaking. You’re not dead yet.”
“Dead?”
“It’s a gag,” I said wearily. “What is your name?”
“Jerry Thompson.”
“Where are we?”
He stared at me. “Don’t you know?”
“Would I ask?”
He sighed. “We’re on one of the little islands out beyond the Gulf Stream. About eighty miles from Miami. Last Man Cay it’s called. We’re off the steam tracks and the air lines to Nassau. Stray conch fishermen are about all that ever drop by. Rich guys have built on some of these isolated cays in the last ten years. Less than an hour from Miami by plane,” he said bitterly, “and we might as well be off the edge of the earth.”
“We’re still hanging on,” I said. “Right now there’s nothing to do but wait and see what breaks.”
I didn’t tell him as I tried the door that my heart was almost breaking over what might be happening to Trixie. The door was solid, hopeless. Any attempt to break it down would alarm the house.
The hot afternoon hours dragged by. Suddenly we both rushed to the little window. The amphibian motors had begun to roar.
Through the tiny window we could see the propellers swirling sand off the beach. The amphibian trundled around, took the water, and as the motors died, it floated toward the pier. Two men made the bow fast to the pier with a line and came ashore.
“I wonder what they’re going to do,” Jerry Thompson said huskily.
“Probably sink it.”
He swallowed. “I’m sunk myself then. I’ve been supporting a wife and two kids with that crate this winter.”
An hour later there was activity in the house. Wetzlaff’s yacht showed off the end of the pier. A speedboat raced ashore. Wetzlaff and his house guests went down to meet it, carrying suitcases. Lucille Palmer was with them. She didn’t seem to be a prisoner.
“Taking her cut and liking it after all,” I muttered.
“What’s that?” Thompson asked.
“Never mind. But it isn’t good news for us.”
He groaned. “My wife will be worried. She’ll think something’s happened to me.”
“Too bad,” I said. Why tell him his wife was practically a widow already?
Evening came. Darkness fell. No water. No food. I said suddenly, “Are you game to take a chance?”
CHAPTER VIII
Payoff Partners
Thompson looked at me doubtfully. “What kind of a chance?”
“To get out of here. You’ll risk a bellyful of lead. But it’s probably your only chance to see the family again. Think fast, brother, think fast.”
I liked him for his answer. “What do we do?” he asked quietly.
I was already tipping the cot up. As quickly as possible I wrenched a leg off. “Got a knife?” I asked.
Surprisingly, he had. I sharpened the end of the leg. “Grab a sheet and catch,” I said.
With the sharpened stick, I attacked the plaster, waist high on the sloping roof, which formed one side of the room. Thompson caught the fragments in the sheet before they rattled on the floor.
It was a screwy idea. But anything was better than waiting for Wetzlaff to get rid of us. Beyond the plaster there were laths, held by light nails. Carefully I pulled them off and got access to the under side of the roof. One strip of board had to be cut through in two places with the knife. Then shingles removed. The cool night air which rushed in was a Godsend to our sweat-covered bodies.
I crawled out first and perched on the slant of the roof. Thompson followed. The moon was up. The ground looked a long way below.
Thompson whispered, “How do we get down?”
“We don’t,” I said. “We go inside. That girl’s in there. And a couple more mugs we’ve got to take along. And don’t tell me it’s dangerous and you’ve had enough or I’ll shove you off the roof right here.”
“If I do, you can shove,” he replied. I loved that Jerry Thompson like a brother from then on.
We crawled over the ticklish slant of the roof until we were above a side-porch roof. Hanging onto Thompson’s wrists, I lowered myself. He gasped. He was slipping. I let go and dropped the last two feet. He caught himself, came sliding feet first over the edge a moment later, and I eased him to a footing.
We unscreened a darkened window and slipped into a bedroom.
Gus and Joe were probably still down in the old wine cellar. But where was Trixie? I could hear people shooting craps downstairs. A man swore disgustedly.
“That cleans me!” he exclaimed. “But for ten bucks I’ll tow that bunch out in the plane an’ sink ’em for you, Buck. I know you’ve got a weak belly.”
A leer was in Buck’s reply. “Yeah? And what about the dame?”
Silence down there. I could almost see them looking at one another. Another voice said, “All Wetzlaff said was he didn’t want to see her again.”
I was sick inside by then, and raging. Those swine mouthing over Trixie’s lovely helplessness. To Jerry Thompson I whispered:
“How long will it take you to get out to that plane and start those motors?”
“I ought to do it in ten minutes.”
I whispered an idea in his ear.
“Okay,” he said under his breath, and slipped back out the window.
And I raised a leg of the bed, removed a castor, and tied it in the end of a pillow case. The result was comforting.
They were still rolling dice downstairs when I tiptoed along the hall and up to the attic floor again. The short hall up there had several mo
re rooms along it. A small electric bulb gave dim light. Without much hope I tapped on the doors. Trixie Meehan’s voice said, “Yes?” inside the second door.
“It’s Mike.”
“Wh-what are you doing out there, Mike?”
“Wait and see.”
I unscrewed the light bulb. In the darkness I hammered on her door. Half a minute of that brought steps hurrying up from below. Were they all coming? No; it sounded like one man.
I crouched at the top of the steps and waited. He came tramping up grumbling, “What the hell happened to that light?” Then, louder: “What’s the matter up here?”
* * *
—
I swung the pillow case. He pitched forward with a queer, gurgling sound. I broke his fall just enough to avoid jarring the house. When I turned on the light I saw he was the same ill-natured fellow who’d kept a gun on me earlier in the day. He’d left his gun downstairs. But he had the keys I wanted. A moment later Trixie was with me, whispering shakily:
“Mike, you darling! I knew you’d do something if you could! Where’s Wetzlaff? Where’s the pilot of my plane?”
“Wetzlaff’s gone back to Miami with the Palmer woman. Your pilot’s outside. How’d you happen to come here?”
“Your man told me over the telephone this morning that you’d gone to Havana with friends. It didn’t make sense. You’d have told me. I met Louis Layre in the lobby. He looked nervous, and said he was in a hurry and would see me in half an hour. I followed him in a taxi. He went on board a yacht moored by the causeway. He wasn’t there long. When he left I turned sightseeing tourist and talked to a sailor guarding the foot of the gangplank.
“He wouldn’t let me aboard, but he was willing to kill the time talking. He looked sleepy, and told me the yacht had just come in from an all-night trip. I couldn’t get any more out of him. But from a sailor on the yacht tied up just ahead of that one, I found out the boat belonged to a Mr. Wetzlaff, who had a house on Last Man’s Cay.
“Wetzlaff’s name was all I needed. Louis Layre worried—the Palmer woman not around—you gone—Layre going aboard Wetzlaff’s boat which had been out all night—and Wetzlaff owning an island off-shore. I hired that plane and flew out here to see if there were any trace of you.”
“Well, you saw.”
Trixie shivered in the crook of my arm. “I balled everything up, didn’t I, Mike?”
“Sweetness,” I said, “you forced Lucille Palmer’s hand. Wetzlaff was trying to chisel in on the Wedgewood deal. Louis Layre had sold out to him. Lucille wasn’t having any of it. Now she’s given in. They’re going ashore to crack Wedgewood. The price is now up to half a million. And,” says I, “Wedgewood will probably pay if they aren’t stopped.”
A yell came up from below. “What’s keeping you so long up there, Buck? You fooling with that girl?” When Buck didn’t reply, we heard them coming up.
I started sweating. Without a gun we were sunk. I thought of going through my room and out on the roof. But there wasn’t time.
I’d been listening for the amphibian motors to start. Had something happened to Jerry Thompson? Wouldn’t that motor ever start?
They were in the second floor hall now, two or three of them, coming fast.
“Get back in your room,” I said thickly.
“We’re not going to make it, are we?” Trixie said unsteadily.
“Not now, I guess. This is the payoff.”
“Then I’ll take it with you, Mike.”
“Trixie—you’re—you’re pretty swell!”
“Yes, Mike?” Trixie said with a catch in her voice.
It was almost love—and just then, outside in the night, the amphibian motors racketed out into full-throated thunder….
CHAPTER IX
Bitters
Well, we didn’t have love. One of the men below yelled, “It’s the plane, boys! Somebody’s out there!”
They bolted back downstairs. We had the house to ourselves. I grabbed Trixie’s arm and hustled her down so fast her teeth rattled.
When I got her out the back door with directions, I looked for the old wine cellar down in the basement. It wasn’t hard to find. One of my keys unlocked the massive door. Dirty, unshaven, haggard, Gus lumbered out croaking:
“What’s the score, Boss? Don’t tell me they’re letting us go!”
“I should tell you anything!” I cracked back. “Just keep coming!”
When we reached the kitchen, I heard a bewildered voice calling in the front hall. “Buck! Pete! Where the hell are you guys?”
My victim had gotten downstairs by himself. We heard him go out the front door, still calling.
I grabbed a newspaper off a chair as we started out the back. Then, on the back porch, I spotted a five-gallon oil can.
“Just what I need to put the frosting on the cake,” says I aloud. I took the can back in, unscrewed the cap, slopped some of the contents out, then backed through the doorway and tossed a lighted match.
It was gasoline. The puffing explosion almost blew me out the back porch door.
Gus Wayland gulped: “What the hell you doing, Boss?”
“Disinfecting a rat’s nest,” I said. “Follow me if you want breakfast in the morning!”
The amphibian motors were roaring just off-shore. The big plane was wallowing parallel to the beach in the opposite direction from which I ran.
The ripping tear of sub-machine gun fire spatted against the sound of the motors. Wetzlaff’s men were shooting from the beach as they kept abreast of the slowly moving plane.
Trixie was waiting under the palms where I’d told her to go.
“The plane’s going the other way!” she protested as I caught her arm and urged her along.
“Don’t argue! Come on!”
“Do you know what you’re doing?” Trixie panted indignantly as I half-dragged her along.
“Stop talking, you little nitwit, and run!” I yelled, shaking her arm.
“Nitwit?” Trixie blazed. “Trying to be a caveman again, Ape?”
So we were at it again, fighting as we ran. Where was love now? Bah!
I ran them a quarter of a mile down the beach. By that time the amphibian had circled out from shore and was heading back toward us. I lighted the newspaper, waved the flaming torch. The motors revved up and the plane came racing over the water toward us.
“You knew it was going to pick us up all the time!” Trixie accused.
“If you had any sense you’d have known he was decoying Wetzlaff’s men down the other way!” I snapped. I was still jumpy. Suppose Jerry Thompson struck a floating log? Suppose something went wrong at the last minute?
Thompson brought the plane in almost to the beach. We waded out. He helped us aboard. His left arm was wet with blood. “They hit you,” I said.
He grinned. “Nipped me in the arm. It’s cheap enough for the ticket out of here. Hang on. We’re going places.”
Windows and walls of the cabin were dotted with bullet holes. That close they’d come to Thompson and the gas tanks. The next moment the up-surge of the plane thrust me down in the seat as Thompson hunted the sky with motors gunned wide open.
Last Man Cay, so formidable, so threatening and menacing, was suddenly only an insignificant patch of land on a limitless, moon-dusted sea. Far below red flames were licking out of a toy-like house.
I had no regrets for that fire. But as we droned through the night sky and the slow minutes dragged, I wondered feverishly whether I had a chance now to keep my promise and break the Wedgewood case in time.
Jerry Thompson was still chipper when he brought us down in a long glide toward the seaplane landing fronting Biscayne Boulevard. He taxied up on the wooden apron and stepped back to us, grinning.
“Now,” he said, “
for the cops!”
“Great boy, keed!” I said. “But no cops right now. I’ve got to have a little free time.”
“Hey?” says Jerry, squinting at me. “How come?”
“You made a thousand bucks today,” I told him. “And repairs on your plane extra.”
“Nix. I ain’t asking for an extra cut. I got back, didn’t I?”
“It’s on the expense account,” I explained. “The guy who pays will like it or else. But I need time, Jerry. I’m a private dick on a delicate case. You will earn that grand if you help me.”
Jerry’s face cleared. “Why didn’t you say so? I’ll get my arm fixed up and report to the missus.”
“I’m staying at the Miami-Plaza,” I said as I started for the door. “Michael Harris is the name. I’ll be seeing you.”
We got a taxi on Biscayne Boulevard and drove over the south causeway. Wetzlaff’s yacht was not there. That wasn’t any help.
* * *
—
People stared at us as we entered the Miami-Plaza. We looked bad. The desk said Lucille Palmer had checked out. My mind was on Bitters as the elevator went up. Would Bitters be here? He was.
I entered so swiftly I caught him coming off my bed with a newspaper in one hand and a glass of my Scotch and soda in the other. His jaw dropped. His eyes bulged. He gasped:
“Why, sir, why—”
“Exactly!” I yelped. “Why, and why the hell? Put down that glass, you big tramp!”
His hand was shaking as he obeyed. “You look rather upset, sir,” he gulped. “Uh—has anything happened?”
I stood on my toes and slammed an uppercut under his jaw. He went back on the bed. Rubbing my knuckles, I let him have it cold turkey.
“So I went to Havana, did I? Come through with it, you pile of cheese! What do you know about it?”
“I—I don’t understand, sir.”
“Maybe this’ll help you!” I raged, and mashed his nose with the next one.
He was moaning and holding a handkerchief to his bleeding nose when he wallowed up on the bed again. Big Gus Wayland spoke admiringly from the doorway.
The Big Book of Female Detectives Page 42